Wish Her Safe At Home

by Stephen Benatar

  “Why don’t you think that it would work?”

  “Because I’m in love and—well, it was silly of me, I was all mixed up, I’d taken too much wine. I ought to have seen. We’re going to need our privacy.”

  She disregarded all the rest. “You’re in love?” she said. I might have told her I was Willie Shakespeare in disguise.

  She even felt a need to repeat it—“You’re in love?”

  “Yes! Head over heels!”

  “Oh.”

  “Yes oh indeed. Oh, oh, oh! Fly me to the moon and let me play among the stars!”

  “We didn’t even know that you had met anyone.”

  “Oh, what nonsense! Most certainly you did!”

  She simply shook her head.

  “You can scarcely have forgotten,” I said. “Why, you were even introduced!”

  She looked at me as though I might be suffering from delusions; but then mercifully she must have realized it was her own memory which lay at fault not mine. In addition to being disappointed she was plainly very tired. A dangerous combination—as I knew only too well from remembering my own disappointments in London.

  “Are you meaning to live with him?” she asked dully. “Is he going to move in?”

  “What need? He was here long before I was. Long, long before I was. Except in a way, of course, he wasn’t. But up until now he hasn’t said too much about that side of it and I haven’t liked to push. You see, it’s all immensely complicated. I’d rather let him reveal things in his own good time; or perhaps I’d better say—at his own good pace! I mustn’t risk giving him a stammer, you understand, or making him feel in any way an oddity.”

  She still seemed uncertain how to respond. I held up my hand to show her the lovely little band of gold he’d given me. (I noticed, impatiently, that the varnish was chipping off a couple of my nails. There and then I made a vow: on no account must happiness be allowed to turn me slipshod! When had I last washed? Life was so full of incident these days now that I had a man about the house. And not just any ordinary man either; rather one who had most likely had to be celibate for well-nigh two centuries. Oh, he was such a devil! No rest for the wicked! And anyway—let’s be honest about this—sometimes for one reason or another a person simply can’t be fagged to wash. I think that’s true?)

  “True?” I asked.

  “What?”

  I didn’t want to start regarding her as unintelligent. Therefore having shown her the ring I stood up and pirouetted for her—as I so often did for my husband. “And this of course was my wedding dress—though plainly doctored now to some degree.” I gave her my usual tinkling laugh. “I can hardly bear to take it off.”

  “So you’re... married already?” This also seemed extremely lame.

  “Oh my! I would have to blush a great deal if I weren’t!”

  Dimplingly I covered my face and feigned sweet girlish modesty. She looked towards the door.

  I asked: “But aren’t you going to congratulate me?”

  Though even then she hesitated. “Congratulations, Rachel.”

  “ Heartiest congratulations, I hope.”

  She nodded.

  “You may kiss me if you like.” Yet I don’t know why I said that. I really didn’t care whether she kissed me or not.

  But she did. And it was a woefully lacklustre performance. Was Roger making typically thoughtless demands on her, stopping her from getting her beauty sleep, forgetting she had a mother’s duties to perform as well as a wife’s?

  “You know, it’s suddenly occurred to me, Celia. I don’t believe you look at him—not any longer—in quite that same old way. Do you remember? In the garden... when we were sitting on my wrought-iron bench? Well, never mind: with you two it was always just a question of time, wasn’t it? I knew that from the start. Now, my dear, which would you prefer: tea or coffee?”

  She declined them both however. “I only meant to stay five minutes.” But she didn’t look as though she’d ever find the wherewithal to get up from her chair. “So, Rachel, this man... why have you never mentioned him?”

  “But I have! How can you possibly utter such a falsehood?”

  Oh, Lord, that sounded harsh; I instantly regretted it. Especially since she looked so completely unsure of herself and of the world around her—it was a little touching, unexpectedly pathetic. Whatever they might lack materially at least she and her husband had always seemed to possess confidence.

  “Celia, you must forgive me! I realize it wasn’t a falsehood, merely a misunderstanding. And in my simple unworldliness, you know, I’d thought the whole thing would work out so very nicely. It was he who made me see it wouldn’t.”

  “He?”

  “Yes, dear. Horatio.”

  She still looked dazed. It must sometimes be such an awful strain, I thought, having to live up to Roger.

  “Perhaps you’d like to say good morning to him? I’m sure he’d appreciate it.”

  It was almost a whisper. “Is he here now?”

  “Good gracious, no. Do you think that we’d ignore him if he were? The wicked man is still just loafing in his bed— our bed, I should say. But all the same he can definitely hear you because he is here in a manner of speaking; and all you have to say is, ‘Good morning, Horatio, isn’t it a lovely day!’ or something of that sort. He won’t mind you calling him Horatio. He’s already very used to the free-and-easy manners of our present age!”

  She said: “Good morning, Horatio. Isn’t it a lovely day?” She didn’t sound at all well.

  “Poor Celia. It has been something of a shock, hasn’t it? I can see that. But have no fears about the rest of it: I give you my word that this afternoon I’ll go straight round and sign those papers. And listen, dear—surely you don’t have to get back immediately? Can’t you just say bollocks to your lord and master? There’s a little coffee place across the road where I can buy you a cup of hot sweet tea and a bun and we’ll continue with our pleasant little talk. Wouldn’t you like that? Then spare me half a second; I’ll fetch my parasol and hat.”

  “Your hat?” She must have gathered from my tone that it was something rather special.

  “Yes, it’s new. Just wait until you see it!”

  But obviously she must have felt she couldn’t. I was away for literally three minutes—I hadn’t even put it on—yet when I got back she had let herself out of the house. I looked up and down the street but she’d already gone.

  People were sometimes so peculiar.

  It was a pity, I thought. Oh, not for the sake of the tea or the conversation—entirely immaterial!—but she was evidently upset and the sight of my latest acquisition would have cheered her up no end. It was white and floppy and broad-brimmed: a picture hat the like of which—at least until I had stumbled on a most important truth—I’d never had the opportunity to wear... not being a member of the haut monde or a frequenter of Royal Ascot or even of Buckingham Palace garden parties—I mean of course not until now! So what was this vitally important truth? Very simple. I had realized merely that you have to find your own opportunities... and that the day is all but spilling over with them. In short the world can be yours if you will only wear the right sort of hat. (Wasn’t there a slogan once? “If you want to get ahead get a hat.” I could have written it myself!) And pinned to the side of this right sort of hat was a soft full-blown red rose, incredibly real-looking, which matched perfectly—picked out quite beautifully—the theme of roses on the dress. And the long red ribbon which I tied under my chin made it a hat so very much like Scarlett’s...

  Yes, what a pity that Celia hadn’t seen it.

  Anyway I called up the stairs again, just to tell my lord and master that I was still going across the road for a cup of coffee, but that I’d try not to stay too long... home was always the best place for any girl to be; especially—one might add—for any girl as newly married as I was!

  But it had occurred to me that Doreen’s mother hadn’t yet seen my full regalia. And Doreen herself could p
ossibly be there.

  Even her boyfriend who went weightlifting? The one with the rippling back?

  Well, if he was—and if I behaved myself impeccably—I wondered if he might let me take a peep?

  46

  But roger—when he came on his own that evening—was more than just upset and disappointed. He was extremely angry.

  Not one second of charm wasted on either congratulation or compliment. His anger blazed in the hallway. I hadn’t time even to take him into the breakfast room, where in the morning I had entertained his wife.

  “Look here, Rachel! What is all this? I can’t believe what Celia told me.”

  “About my marriage, you mean?”

  “About your marriage—about your extraordinary change of heart—about every single damned thing!”

  “There’s been no change of heart. Simply a change of mind.”

  “Do you realize we shall soon have to be out of our flat? Do you realize we shall soon be homeless and probably living on the street because we shan’t be able to find anything else we can afford? Do you realize this is all your fault?”

  “Please, Roger, there’s really no need to shout! And no need to be ridiculous! Can’t you simply tell them you’re sorry but that you’ve made a mistake?”

  “Oh, don’t be stupid! Weren’t you listening when Celia told you the flat’s already taken? That contracts have been signed?”

  “Stupid,” I felt, wasn’t quite the word for somebody who had bought you caviar and duck and champagne, had had silver christening gifts engraved, had made your son her only legatee. (I had kept my promise and directly after lunch had returned to Thames & Avery.) This house—together with its contents—was absolutely everything I had.

  And possibly on reflection Roger began to feel the same way. He was certainly impulsive but he wasn’t unfair. He had a mercurial and passionate nature—and wasn’t that at least a part of what I loved him for?—but there was no real meanness in it. He started to cool down.

  “Look, Rachel, I’m sorry—I didn’t mean all that! I’m worried about my exams, as well as about providing for my family. Couldn’t we just talk this through?”

  “Of course we could, my darling. First tell me that you like my dress.”

  “Yes,I... I like your dress.”

  “Now come and sit down and we’ll have a glass of sherry and you can say it with a bit more conviction! For after all”—and now I felt confident enough to make a joke—“nobody in his right senses could fail to like the dress even if he didn’t think so much of the woman who was wearing it!”

  He gave a sickly smile but wasn’t yet sufficiently recovered to join in with my laughter.

  “I bet you lead that poor girl one fucking hell of a life,” I said companionably, as we sat down. (I forgot to fetch the glasses and decanter.) “Do you flare up like that very often?”

  He only shrugged. He still looked rather sullen.

  But I met him halfway. “I have to say, though, I can see why she might irritate you. She sometimes does me. I’m not implying she hasn’t got character—oh, no, not at all! Yet she can be bland, I do admit that. Also just a bit colourless.”

  “Celia? Bland? You must be dreaming! Oh, I can assure you she has character, all right!”

  He actually sounded a mite more bitter than partisan. As though you’d mentioned to Macbeth that you thought his wife was charming—but hadn’t anyone told her about those female assertiveness courses she could enroll for?

  “Really?” I said. “Well, you should know best—and we’re all such a mass of contradictions, aren’t we? This morning, for example, she didn’t sound half as desperate as you do.”

  “Then she should have!”

  “Yes, I see. Oh dear. But couldn’t you go to stay with her parents for the time being? They’ve a large enough house and possibly Mrs. Tiverton doesn’t get chased around it naked any more. (One wonders if she ever did?) And I could come as often as you liked , to take young Tommy out on treats.”

  There! It sometimes took outsiders to hit on the really obvious solution.

  “In fact, come to think of it,” I said, “I can already see a certain similarity between Celia and her mother. But please don’t get me wrong: I do like Celia. How could I not, indeed, as the mother of my first godchild?”

  I tried another little joke.

  “To tell the absolute truth I occasionally like her a little more than I like you!”

  I don’t know if he appreciated that. It seemed to me he hadn’t quite—not altogether —recovered from his sulks.

  Of course I had to remind myself that he was still extremely young. Men matured so much slower than women.

  But he did have a lovely body.

  “It was that which I first admired about you,” I said.

  “What was?”

  “The way you looked without your shirt. All those muscles!”

  He didn’t even say thank you. I really feel that people should be taught—and at a suitably early age—how to respond to compliments.

  “For, in some ways, I do prefer you in your jeans. I’m glad you’re wearing jeans now. It would even give me something of a thrill, you know, if you were to take off your shirt again tonight. I should really like to sit and gaze—as on some splendid piece of statuary! Or do you think I’m being too forward? But why not say what’s on your mind when it’s only something nice and almost certain to give pleasure? It’s such a pity to be shy!”

  He was staring at me but still not speaking. It sometimes appeared to me—particularly of late—that my conversations were getting progressively one-sided.

  “However, going back to this business of your raising Cain? Celia, at any rate, can look after herself... whether she’s Lady Macbeth or Little Nell. But I won’t have you giving my young godson a hard time. I just won’t!” As I had done before, I admonished him with a forefinger that was only partially humorous. “Otherwise, my good man, you’ll find you have me to deal with!”

  “Rachel,” he said. He appeared now to have relinquished all his anger. A well-timed compliment can often help.

  “Yes, my dear?”

  “I... ”

  “Don’t be afraid to say it, whatever it is. For all my present fierceness, Roger—not so enormously fierce, I think you must agree—I’m still extremely fond of you. Why! You should only have heard me taking up arms on your behalf when... ! But no—I shouldn’t be saying that. I’m so much hoping that you and Horatio are going to become friends!”

  “Mr. Gavin?”

  Yet it wasn’t truly a question. It was more in the nature of a world-weary comment—as though a vain and incredulous lover were at long last being forced to acknowledge the existence of a rival.

  “Yes, sweet, you and Mr. Gavin.”

  “Your husband?”

  “Oh, such jaded resignation!” I smiled. Dear Roger. He was just a disappointed little boy who had never been meant to have his nose put out of joint. A little boy who was now discovering that life could occasionally be hard. I so much wanted to reassure him.

  Yet how ironic it was. He and I: two pilgrims. Both looking for paradise; for meaning, for fulfilment. The universal quest. But one of us still only at the beginning of his journey, whilst the other had almost reached the end of hers.

  One... very young in lifetimes. The other... maybe at last about to leave the wheel. But not on her own. That was the blessed wonder of it all: one of God’s most infinite of mercies. When the time came I’d be stepping off it hand in hand with the man who had returned to claim me. To love me. To lead me.

  And therein, evidently, lay the germ of the great comfort I could bring to him, my disappointed little boy.

  “Darling, don’t you see, that’s how it works! And I wonder if one day (though possibly not for some time: let’s say in another century or so?) I shall be the one true love returning to take care of you.”

  Such momentous words. I knew he couldn’t grasp them for the present.

  I smiled. “
My real name so far as I know—my previous name, anyway, so far as I know!—in this life it seems you can’t be sure of very much; and there could so easily have been others in between... Is it already getting complicated?”

  I felt it probably was.

  “Well, anyhow, let me get straight to the point. Perhaps it will make things clearer if I explain it to you like this.” Now I gave a laugh. “Miss Anne Barnetby—meet Mr. Roger Allsop!”

  I held out my hand. He didn’t take it. I wasn’t offended. I understood precisely what he was going through.

  “Indeed,” I said, “Miss Anne Barnetby (possibly this will be a little easier; are you beginning to catch on?), Miss Anne Barnetby—meet Miss Rachel Waring! Or should I say—meet the former Miss Rachel Waring.”

  I paused.

  “But now Mrs. Gavin, Mrs. Horatio Gavin. Proof that I’ve fulfilled my destiny, my ultimate and oh so lovely destiny! No, forgive me: our ultimate and oh so lovely destiny! Dear Anne, we didn’t make it then —we were still so silly, headstrong and misguided, still such a painfully immature young person (not unlike a certain somebody not a million miles away from us right now!) but just look at how it’s all turned out! Bingo! You must be every bit as pleased as I am to find that we’ve finally come home. Relieved and proud and thankful. Oh, yes! I think we’ve changed a bit during these past two hundred years!”

  “Rachel... ?” He hadn’t spoken for a long time. His voice was almost an intrusion.

  “Yes, sweetheart? Your Rachel is still here. So is your Anne. So, perhaps, your Ariadne, your Penelope, your Jane. Who knows... possibly your Christopher, your Julius, your John? I always liked the name Penelope for some reason. Maybe that means something?”

  Leaning forward he placed a hand upon my knee.

  “Rachel,” he said, “I think that you’re not well.”

  His charm may have lost some of its usual dynamism but none of its usual potency.

  “Darling,” I said, “I never felt better in my life. As if I’d just come home from a long sea voyage.”

  I giggled.

  “Or as if my husband had!”